Pandemonium
by Neocolai
Summary: Inspired by Killinganger's fanart for 'Pokémon Robins'. Bruce tries to balance pokémon training with night patrol, but his charges never make anything easy. Vet days are the worst. Contains fluff, angst, and a fanged Damian. no slash.


This was wholly inspired by two of Killinganger's pictures on deviantart ("Batfam" and "Jason Todd-Injured"), featuring the bat!kids as pokémon with Batman as their trainer. All credit goes to Killinganger's creative ideas and artwork.

 **In this story the Joker is an evil pokemon trainer, not an arch villain.** Batman still patrols Gotham at night but the criminals are typical and the storyline is not as dark.

Minor Note - I know that each pokémon has a classified name, evolution, etc. Since the Robins in Killinganger's art don't fall into any of those categories, I've simplified the classifications to "dragon-pokémon, fox-pokémon" etc., according to the appearances of each Robin. All other pokémons are categorized into the Pokémon universe.

 **Disclaimer: Neocolai does not own pokémon, the D.C. universe, Killinganger's original art, or anything related to these three.**

* * *

 _Inspired from Killinganger's picture "Jason Todd-Injured". An imagined scenario leading up to (not beyond) the picture itself._

* * *

Vet day was always a pain.

Four pokémon to register (none would visit alone), one of which generously bestowed fang marks and first degree burns, another who believed in 'shock first, apologize later if commanded'. Thank goodness Tim and Dick were relatively well behaved.

"No biting," Bruce firmly ordered as he brought Damian to the counter. The dragon-pokémon hissed against his teeth, glowering at the receptionist. The redhead rolled her eyes.

"Hi, Damian. Long time since your last checkup." To Bruce she directed, "Is he still burning his throat when he sneezes?"

"Seems to have vanished with the cold," Bruce said. "He's lost most of his baby fangs."

A snarl from Jason indicated whose furry coat had been snagged by those fangs. Casting a warning glance at the fox-pokémon, Bruce returned his attention to the receptionist. "Just a regular checkup; make sure the new canines are in good shape."

Damian snarled, demonstrating a row of half-grown, pointy teeth. With a forced grin the receptionist slid a clipboard over to Bruce.

"If he sets another chair on fire, we'll have to ask you to restrain him in his poké ball." She winced uneasily, no doubt remembering the fiasco from four months ago, when Tim had wrenched his right wing and Damian had succeeded in freeing twelve other pokémon during the appointment.

Clearing his throat pointedly, Bruce jounced Damian in his arm and swore, "He'll behave."

"Tt!" the dragon-pokémon hissed.

The receptionist's smile never reached her eyes, not in all the years they had been attending the pet clinic.

Except when a certain marine pokémon popped out of his fishbowl and waved, squeaking high, nonsensical words of adoration. Laughing softly, the receptionist waggled her fingers in return.

"And how is my favorite little Dickie doing?" She cast a stern look at Bruce. "You haven't let that fox drug his water again."

"Jason? No, Alfred locked the alcohol away." One more reason the fox-pokemon was kenneled more often than the rest.

"Mm-hm." Pushing her glasses up, the receptionist flicked through her files and pulled out three more forms. "All four today?"

"Yes – oh, and Tim's been showing some allergic reaction to the lawn mulch. Thought we'd better get that checked out."

Bored with the lack of stimulation, Damian wriggled crossly and nibbled Bruce's arm. Mechanically Bruce switched him to the other side, fumbling the pen with his left hand.

"Shall I hold him for you, Master Bruce?" Alfred offered from across the room.

Glancing back at his butler, whose hands were already full of a crackling, incented Jason and a whimpering Tim, Bruce shook his head. "I've got him."

"Tt!"

"Behave," Bruce warned sternly.

Sighing, the receptionist adjusted her glasses again and mumbled, "This is going to be a long day."

"How long before the vet finishes with his patient, Barbara?" Bruce asked.

"He's running late. It shouldn't take too long; we'll push to see your pokémon through first."

Bruce nodded instinctively, bending over the paperwork and trying to block out the noise. Damian wriggled over his shoulder to snarl unintelligible curses at Jason. Dick was practicing flips in his fishbowl; splashing a squealing girl and her classy cat, and Tim was still sneezing miserably, red nose tucked into Alfred's side.

 _Another long day,_ Bruce thought resignedly. If only his pokémon would concede to visiting the clinic one at a time. Then again, after the events of Arkhaam clinic, it was expected that the pokémon would stick together. Protect one another. It was the same white-clad, two-sided vet who had slipped a toxin into Jason's vaccination that had left Dick out of his waterbowl for too long. His quirky assistant, the one who favored more red and black in her uniform than permitted for standard clinics, had dropped Tim on his head before insisting to the witness – Bruce himself – that the pixie-pokémon merely suffered from an ingrown wing and would have to be removed to surgery at once.

Both vets had been charged with pokémon abuse and the clinic had been – ironically – converted into a kempt, secure pound for those pokémon determined to be too violent for domestication. Arkhaam.

The name was fouler than the corrupted clinic it had replaced. Jason had been rescued from Arkhaam once. He still curled around Dick's fishbowl on the worst nights, and occasionally Bruce felt a warm, shivering lump huddled on the bed by his feet.

Pokémon couldn't talk through their problems like children. Even Tim, a fledgling orphaned before his wings were fully grown, could only chitter inconsolably when he was upset. Physical contact proved beneficial, even for Damian (though the scratches were hardly worth it), until cuddles abounded in the Wayne household; an abomination the Batman chose to ignore. (Dignity had been forgotten once Dick insisted on hourly hugs.)

A few less cozy feels and a little more _help_ would have been appreciated at the moment, so Bruce thought as he clapped four clipboards into one hand and pulled a yelping, sizzling Jason away from Dick's fishbowl. Grunting in response to Alfred's raised eyebrow, he plopped Damian into the butler's lap.

"Paperwork," Bruce mumbled, relieving Alfred of Tim before sitting down and settling Jason on his other side.

"Would you like my assistance with the forms?" Alfred offered. "I know all of Tim's vaccinations from previous appointments."

Pixie-pokémon seemed to be unusually fragile. Shaking his head (and intercepting Damian before the pokémon knocked Dick's bowl off the armrest), Bruce handed over Tim and Jason's clipboard. Dick was easy enough; a circus pokémon traumatized by the death of his previous trainers, his only complications were an overly exuberant personality and a tendency to cling to his fellow pokémon and trainers. Bruce had raised Damian since the two-month old had crawled into the Bat lair, and he knew all of the dragon-pokémon's habits. (Particularly the 'sneak out and join Batman during patrol' nightly routine. Juggling pokémon training around criminal hunts was growing more hazardous by the year.)

Tim could be handled; polite, well-mannered, and orderly like a good pixie-pokémon, his only trouble was the endless list of allergies and a tendency to swoon at strong odors. Fresh tar on the pavement had penned him in his room for two days, sniffling miserably into a vanilla-scented handkerchief (courtesy of Alfred).

The moodiest of the pokémon kits – the one with a tendency to carefully pick medications out of his food, swamp the bathroom floor with sudsy water, and hide under the examination table until Bruce was sent to drag him out in a spitting, clawing fit – was also the one with the longest list of supplements and checkups. Jason was a wild pokemon; found half rabid and starved in a soggy box by a dumpster. Fleas and a broken paw were quickly followed up by treatment for sniffles, malnutrition, infected cuts, parasites, and a severe bacterial infection. Electric burns to a distraught Dick led Bruce to realize the fox-pokémon was also highly charged and dangerous.

Warrant for a prompt delivery to Arkhaam these days. Vengeful after his clinic was defaced, Doctor Harvey had seen it through. Batman himself had intervened, and Bruce had been plagued with four hero-wanna-be pokémon ever since.

"Anything new to add to Jason's list?" Batman asked in a monotone, shifting to the right when Damian pounced on his shoulder. He passed Tim over before the dragon-pokémon could strangle his favorite chew toy.

Feeling left out, Dick started whining for company. Patiently Alfred removed the marine pokémon from his bowl, impassive to the wet splotch that quickly spread across his suit. Dick cooed excitedly and reached for Damian's tail, yanking the spitting dragon-pokémon into a hug. Tim was instantaneously exchanged.

"Mister Wayne?" the petite blond assistant called from the door. As Bruce looked up she informed him, "Doctor Leslie will be with you momentarily. She's just finishing with another patient."

 _Another patient_ – more like a demented hyena from the riot down the hall. The assistant skittered out the way, looking back nervously as scrabbling claws and roaring barks followed Doctor Leslie's angered shouts.

Dick ceased his antics and huddled against Alfred. Jason's fur rose on end and he growled, electricity jolting between his teeth. Tim peeked over Alfred's arm and Damian cocked his head, unacquainted with the danger. Exchanging a glance, Bruce and Alfred rose and tucked the pokémon behind them.

"Now, now, no need to fret. Uncle Jay's got him under control." The sneering voice curdled Bruce's stomach. Purple-favoring, questionably-legal pokémon trainer, Mr. Jay (a.k.a. "The Joker Card") was renowned for unusual beasts that capitalized pokémon championships. His current 'schmoopsie poo' was a bulky houndoom with grisly incisors and bristling, wiry fur.

"Say, Brucie boy! Fancy running into you here. What do you think?" Mr. Jay said excitedly. "I call him Crowbar. Isn't he a killer?"

"Merciful heavens!" Alfred exclaimed as the houndoom wrenched against its leash, snarling. To Doctor Leslie he accused, "You permit such a creature in the clinic?"

Hair askew and uniform rumpled with muddy paw prints, Doctor Leslie stalked out from behind Mr. Jay and tossed her clipboard to the receptionist. "He's a paying customer, the same as the rest. Now take that houndoom out of here, Joker; you're traumatizing the rest of my patients."

Indeed, the little girl and her classy cat were both hiding in the cat tree where Doctor Leslie's espeon was supposed to lodge. A cubone quivered beneath his owner's chair, and a vulpix scrabbled back with high, shrieking yips. Damian bared his fangs.

"Crowbar, be nice for Uncle Jay." Mr. Jay beamed at Bruce with even, sparkling teeth. "I haven't seen you in the championships yet. I thought Little Fin would be enrolled last time."

A splash indicated that Dick had fled to his bowl. Bruce shifted to the right, subtly concealing him from the Joker's sight. Crowbar growled.

"I don't throw pokémon into the fighting ring," Bruce said darkly.

"No, I forgot – you train them as pets." Mr. Jay rolled his eyes. "Timmy, Jayfox, Little Fin – who's the baby of the family; Little Wing?"

Bruce lunged just in time to catch a writhing, fire-spouting Damian.

"Mister Wayne!" Doctor Leslie shouted. "Control your pokémon or contain him. Mister Jay, get that animal off the premises. I will not have a pokémon battle in the middle of my clinic."

"Of course." Mr. Jay gave a mock bow. "Sincerest apologies, Doctor Leslie. Come on, Crowbar."

Furiously shaking his head, Bruce stalked past Alfred as the Joker dragged his houndoom to the door. Smacking the clipboards onto Barbara's desk, Bruce transferred Damian to the only sleeve that had not been shredded by miniature claws and insisted, "Do you have an examination room open for him now?"

"Room three," Doctor Leslie said tartly. "Don't let him chew the table padding."

Bruce gave a clipped nod and hoisted the dragon-pokémon onto his shoulder. He was nearly to the door when a chain leash rattled and Mr. Jay uttered,

"Oops."

Claws scrabbled on the linoleum floor as the wall clock fell from its nail. Before the timepiece cracked; before the Joker howled; before the woman holding her son's dedenne screamed; Bruce heard the roar of a houndoom, accompanied by the crash of glass and Dick's high pitched shriek.

"Alfred!" Flinging Damian into the examination room, Bruce pelted into the waiting room. Fierce snarling and squeals was drowned out as chairs were knocked aside and pokemon owners sprinted for the door.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred shouted for backup, a frantic delcatty clinging to his shoulder as he punched the houndoom in the throat.

"Call your pokémon!" Bruce shouted at the Joker, before lunging to grab the beast's collar.

Tim hovered by the ceiling light, flinging pollen into the houndoom's eyes. Dick had flopped behind a chair and was using the water from his shattered bowl to channel Jason's electricity. The furious dedenne assisted them with fiery, sniffling coughs, before he was carried away by his hysterical caretaker. Another breach of fire indicated that Damian had escaped the examination room and joined the fight.

For one moment, Doctor Leslie could have snapped a photo and believed that Batman and his champions had infiltrated an illegal fighting ring in Gotham's undercity.

Then the houndoom tore away from Bruce's grip, sending the billionaire stumbling with a snapped collar in his hands. A blur of muscle and snapping teeth; a squeal from Dick; and then Jason leaped before his fellow pokémon, sharp teeth gnashing and electricity cascading from his erect tail.

The houndoom balked, yelping as fire and static burned its nose. Maddened, it sprang, seizing its tiny tormentor between iron jaws.

Dick wailed. Bruce brought a chair down on the houndoom's back. Alfred kicked aside a poochyena that wanted to join the fray. Mr. Jay clapped his hand over a grin.

With a rabid whimper the houndoom flipped and rolled away from Bruce, tumbling over its own legs before bolting through the open door. Bruce shouted and Mr. Jay slapped his leg, raising his hands in commendation.

"Bruce, I never thought you had it in you! Why don't we see your pokémon in the rings – say, next week? Jackpot is a –"

"Get out of the way!" Bruce roared, pushing the pokerfaced trainer aside. "Jason!"

"Oh, dear," Mr. Jay murmured, calmly sidestepping Alfred and a screeching Damian. "I seem to have created some disturbance."

"Miss Gordon, get your father on the line for that houndoom now!" Doctor Leslie ordered. "This clinic is closed. I need all vets called in for injured pokémon. I don't care what holidays were scheduled. Stephanie, hose down that wall before the entire building catches fire. Mister Jay, what are you doing here? Catch that mutt of yours before I write you down for illegal pokemon training! As it is, I'll be reporting you to Officer Gordon for all damages."

"Oh, my dear lady, I am gone," Mr. Jay said pleasantly, giving a mock apologetic bow. "Can't leave Crowbar running through Gotham's streets all alone."

He'd pen his dog. Tomorrow. Once Bruce realized that some pokémon were born to fight. Shame the kits had been raised by a pushover trainer. They could have ripped through Gotham if Joker had been given the chance.

Such awestriking talent. Wasted on family tussles and circus parties.

* * *

"Jason!"

Bruce stumbled at the park, cursing when he realized he had lost the trail. He listened for the houndoom's bray; for the mewl of a pokémon who had escaped. Haggardly Bruce rubbed a hand over his face. Gotham's levels were too expansive. He needed his team.

Fluttering wings lifted the corner of his mouth in a tense smile. Tim carefully lowered himself onto Bruce's shoulder. The pixie-pokémon shrugged, wondering how he could help.

Huffing and bitter grumbles heralded Damian's flight before he perched on Bruce's spare shoulder. "Tt!"

"I know," Bruce said grimly. "We'll find him."

"Master Bruce." Winded, Alfred approached with Dick, who twisted uncomfortably, too dry and too sad to be helpful on land. "Shall we designate this park as our meeting point?"

He hated sending the pokémon on their own. Not with a killer on the loose. Gravely Bruce nodded.

"Dick, water systems. Damian, kennels and pounds. Tim, you search the park – anywhere you can escape the smog. Alfred, backtrack to the Manor; if Jason escaped he'll make for home. Find Jason, contact me."

The pokémon sprang into action. Dick wriggled into the brook under the park bridge, Tim spirited into the air, and Damian solemnly met Bruce's eyes before jetting back towards the clinic. Alfred squeezed Bruce's shoulder.

"This isn't the first time one of them was lost."

Bruce could only think of Dick, when the marine pokémon was two tanks smaller and shivering in Bruce's pocket after a meat-fisted ringleader had pitted him against his machamp, Slade. He had vowed never to lose one of the kits again.

Now he had lost Jason twice. Would he always feel like he had failed the red fox?

"Get moving, Alfred," Bruce said in a low tone. The sun was setting, ringing the sky with orange. A murderous houndoom against one feisty, achingly vulnerable pokémon. There was a reason Bruce had chosen to search the streets and alleys by himself.

He didn't want the others to find their brother's remains.

* * *

Dusk, and it was raining. If it wasn't for the sizeable puddles and rumbling downpour, Bruce might have blamed Tim.

It was too close to the first time. The first time he found a rumpled pokémon shivering in the corner of a sodden box. Faint whimpers distracted him from his original quarry, leading him to the gutter pipe where a cardboard shelter had collapsed on itself. The pokémon was too filthy to decipher breed or coloring. It could have been an evolving Mew for all Batman knew. Somehow pity overrode caution, and he had scooped up the half-drowned kit in one hand, brushing back soggy fur which plastered legs as thin as a rat's, and tucked the pokémon into his cape.

Dick had been exhilarated. Crowded blankets around his tank so that he could see Jason from any angle. Alfred had tsked about fleas and brought a saucer of bread soaked in warm milk.

Tim had been carried in by Selina's Meowth a few months later. Then Damian asserted his domain. Jason had never fit in.

He didn't need to.

"Jason," Bruce called, cupping his hands around his mouth. The kit couldn't possibly. Not now. Houndooms were renowned for shredding their opponents, and Jason was a small pokémon.

Bruce's throat burned with nausea as he wondered what scrap of evidence would be left behind. He should have sent the others home.

The softest mewl staggered him midstride.

"Jason?" Hovering, Bruce looked around and stepped towards an overturned trash can. It was dented inwards; just enough that a large cat could have squeezed inside. But a houndoom….

Shredded newspaper and teeth marks on steel showed that it had tried.

Sucking in a breath, Bruce knelt and peered into the can. "Jason?"

Plastic rustled and he caught a glimpse of white fur. Resolution hardening his eyes, Bruce gripped the mouth of the metal trap and wrenched it far enough for his shoulders to fit. He briefly considered what the media would say if Bruce Wayne, billionaire, was seen rifling through the garbage, but thoughts of reporters were quickly forgotten as he saw Jason duck behind a takeout container.

"Jason, come here." Slowly Bruce reached in a hand, pausing when the pokémon hissed, bristling with weak electricity. "Jason, watch your mouth."

Understanding glimmered and the fox-kit sulkily lowered his head onto his paws. A red streak tainted his white fur, and he looked beaten. Defeated. Sympathy etched Bruce's face as he scooped up the kit, mindful of his hurt squeal.

"I've got you. Easy, now. Alfred will fix this."

Jason squirmed, wretched cries echoing in Bruce's chest as he deftly wrapped his coat around the quivering pokémon. He activated the poke balls for his other charges, summoning them to return. Walking briskly, taking care not to jolt Jason, Bruce hurried to the closed pokémon clinic.

Damian and Tim were already waiting by the car when he arrived. Dick rattled the storm grate. Brushing past them, Bruce tucked Jason into the back seat, smoothing one ruffled ear before ushering the other pokémon inside. A brisk retrieval of Dick, and he was pushing Gotham's speed limit, stony eyes fixed on the distant Manor.

One day he would prove that the Joker's atrocities went beyond cheating in the matches. One day the madman would be penned in a cell much like his infamous monsters. One day the Batman would eliminate his feral pokémon.

One day Bruce might pummel Mr. Jay's face for sheer satisfaction.

For now, Jason needed him. He could hear Dick crooning to his brother in the back, and silently urged the marine pokémon to continue. They would pull Jason through this. Nothing was lost forever.

Clenching his fists around the wheel, Bruce stared into Gotham's stormy night.

This was the last time.


End file.
